Post Trauma
by BlueNeutrino
Summary: Sequel to "To The Beat of the Devil's Drums". Dean didn't emerge from the amusement park ordeal unscathed, and some of the scars run deeper than skin.
1. Carousel

**A/N: I've discussed with a few people what the long-term ramifications of the events of TTBOTDD would be for Dean, and he would undoubtedly be left with PTSD and some emotional and psychological issues from what he went through. I would like to try to address some of that, if anybody is down for more Dean whumpage and some brotherly moments. I've also had some readers express interest in nightmare!fic, which I think makes perfect sense in this context.**

 **As if the Silent Hill influences weren't apparent enough in the original fic, I think they become more apparent than ever here. Therefore, in homage to the excellent playable teaser for the sadly abandoned Silent Hills, I think a title of PT is fitting in more ways than one.**

* * *

Dean's heart is pounding.

That's bad. He knows it's bad, but there's no way to get it to slow. Not when he's running, footsteps thundering in time with his pulse, adrenaline pumping through his veins like gasoline to an engine. Something's chasing him, something without a face, and Sam…where is Sam?

He doesn't know, and the fear turns his blood cold.

His feet pummel the dirt, carrying him through a maze of alleyways that seem never ending and lead to nowhere, but he has to keep running. All around him, a cold voice pierces the air. " _Did you think you could escape me, Dean?_ "

His heart hammers harder.

He turns a corner, runs past the carousel – _why is there a carousel? –_ and hears the haunting jingle of a music box as the ride turns. Its bright lights and glossy candy stripes of pink and gold are almost blinding in the darkness.

On the far side, beyond the blur of gold poles and galloping horses, Dean thinks he sees a figure. His heart stutters as his feet halt. _It's found me._ But wait…no, that's not right. He knows that shape. Broad shoulders, tall frame, mane of hair… "Sammy!"

Dean cries out and runs forward, clambering onto the carousel – _because that makes sense._ Immediately, his world begins to spin faster as he stumbles on, hands grasping at moving poles for support. He sees the shape again, this time on the carousel, standing between a black coach and a white horse. Its back is turned. "Sam!" Why won't his brother look at him?

The world around him turns to a blur of orange and white lights, ground spinning fast beneath him. He'd almost be sick were he not so focused on reaching Sam up ahead. Only when he's finally just a couple of feet away, hand reaching for his brother's shoulder, does Sam turn. Dean's heart stops.

Blood coats the left side of Sam's face, crusting over deathly pale skin where it had seeped from a deep gash in his head. In his chest, a gaping hole opens between his ribs to reveal a dark, empty space. Dean's hand freezes just as Sam's rises towards him, clutching a bloody, quivering mass in his upturned palm. The look in his eyes is angry; accusatory. "You didn't find me in time, Dean," he says. "She couldn't take your heart, so she took mine."

"No…" the word slips from Dean's lips as a whisper, almost a prayer that somehow by denying it, he can make it not so. Sam continues to look at him coldly as Dean pleads. "Sammy, no..."

It's not enough. It won't be enough to undo it.

Sam says nothing more, but the look in his eyes pierces Dean to the core. It's the last thing he sees before he notices the blade rising behind Sam, a curved goliath of a sword grafted onto a metal arm, swinging down to cleave right through them both.

There's no point now in running. He's already lost.

Just before Dean's world cuts to black, the last thing he hears is a voice calling his name.

" _Dean! Dean, wake up_!"


	2. Motel

Dean wakes with a start to find a darkened figure leaning over him. His chest heaves, heart pounding like it's trying to pneumatic drill right through his sternum as sweat clings to his skin. The cold terror in his veins doesn't let up until he's had time to process, recognise those eyes staring concernedly down above him. A warm hand rests protectively on his shoulder.

"Dean, you're okay. It's just a dream."

Sam's voice is a welcome comfort as he sits tense in the bed. His eyes dart round as he takes in the shadowy, unfamiliar surroundings, then eventually calms as he recalls the motel room from the night before. Dean finds himself staring at his brother's chest through the dimness, feeling his breathing begin to even out as he convinces himself there's no blood: Sam is real, alive, and whole.

He lets out a breath and the tension seeps from his muscles as he collapses back onto the bed. "Yeah, I know. Must be the burrito I ate before bed. Should have known I was gonna pay for that."

Even in the dark, Dean sees Sam raise a sceptical eyebrow. "Really? You're gonna blame bad dreams on snacking late?" Sam's tone seems as though he's half going along with it to appease him, but half very much still full of concern.

"Yeah…I dunno. Don't worry about it, Sam." Dean rolls over in the bed and tries to pull the sticky sheets up higher again, not looking at his brother if only to hide the panic he's sure is still showing on his face. "Go back to sleep. You're keeping me from getting some shut-eye, here."

That concerned hand is still lingering on his shoulder, and some small part of Dean has to admit that he wants it to stay. "You're sure?" Sam's voice is soft, careful. "I mean, there's nothing you want to talk about?"

Dean looks back at him then, tempted to finally open up and tell his brother everything, but he swallows it down. "You said it yourself, Sam. It's just a dream."

A heartbeat passes in silence. Sam looks down at his brother, brow furrowed, and then purses his lips. The hand on Dean's shoulder drops to his chest, at first intended as just a pat of reassurance, but then lingers. Dean knows Sam felt it. His heart's still racing.

There's a fleeting moment of awkwardness before Sam pulls his hand away without comment, returning to his own bed. "Alright. But, just so you know, I'll be right here," he says as he crawls back under the sheets.

"Yeah, I know. Where else would you be?" It comes out harsh, and Dean feels a stab of guilt as he wonders if hiding the truth was worth it. There's another pause, waiting for Sam to press it further, but he doesn't.

"Okay," Sam says instead, voice full of patience and concern Dean doesn't even think he deserves. "Goodnight, jerk."

That warms Dean's heart enough to calm its pounding a little. "Night, bitch." He closes his eyes again, keeping his face turned away, but immediately the image of a bloodied Sam holding out his own still-beating heart towards him invades his imagination. His pulse seems to taunt him where he hears the blood in his ear pressed against the pillow. It's too much. Dean's eyes fly open again.

There's several minutes of fighting with himself before he has to check, just for reassurance, and rolls back over in the bed to look in Sam's direction…

…only to find his brother staring wide eyed at Dean across the gap between them.

There's a brief moment where they both stare, each having caught the other out, and then Sam's eyes flicker down in embarrassment. He rolls onto his back and lets his eyes slip shut, and Dean does the same, the both of them trying to pretend that never happened and make it through 'til morning.


	3. Unravel

It shouldn't have been this hard. Dean knows how to deal with vamps. He's been doing it for God knows how many years, but approaching the nest nerves are starting to get the better of him. His heart's pounding in an uncomfortable way that he can't ignore, that's making him look over at Sam every five seconds just to make sure he's still alive.

 _What if we're wrong? We were wrong about it being vamps last time…_

They aren't wrong. It's a vamps' nest, and before long they're fighting off a whole swarm as Dean swings his machete and decapitates a few of them just like he knows how… until one of them has him cornered. By rights, she shouldn't. She's no different to the others, shouldn't be a match for him…but there's something about that face. The way blood spatter has smeared across olive skin, dark hair dishevelled, fangs extended into razor sharp points…it's all too familiar, too unsettling, and he hesitates.

The vamp laughs, drawing closer, lips pulled back in a snarl. "Well, look at you, _hunter._ Aren't you the frightened one? I can hear your heart pounding like it's going for a drum solo."

And that's what does it. Dean can't move. Can't breathe.

All he can picture is Sam bleeding out, everything drenched with crimson until Dean's own heart will just _stop…_

He can't even block it out when the real Sam appears from the shadows, machete arcing to take off the vamp's head as she closes in on Dean, and then he's on the floor. His knees gives out and suddenly Sam's at his side, grasping his shoulders, saying something Dean can't even hear above the fury of his own blood. There's a cold, cruel voice laughing somewhere in the back of his mind. " _Looks like I win after all."_

Dean won't even fully remember it when they're back at the Impala later, when his heartbeat's under control again and there's no vamps left for them to kill, but he can feel the intensity of Sam's worried gaze on him like he thinks his brother's about to break. Or maybe he thinks he already has. Dean turns the key in the ignition and drives away without saying a word.


	4. Angel

It's nothing new when Dean wakes again in the middle of the night. He's gotten quieter, as if somehow even his subconscious is trying to avoid disturbing his brother and alerting Sam to what's going on, but still he wakes to find the bedsheets sticky with sweat and his heart trying to make a break from his chest. It's hard to breathe. Harder still to erase the image of a white eyed clown from his mind, laughing as it takes a hammer to Sam's skull, but Dean gulps down a breath and tries.

Through the darkness he squints across the motel room to the second bed, able to make out the mass of a body lying bundled up in the sheets. Sam's face is turned away so that he can just see a mass of hair atop the pillow. Is he breathing? Dean doesn't think he could tell. He stares hard for a sign of movement, the gentle rise and fall of Sam's chest, but it's too dark. The pounding of his blood is too loud to listen. But it's okay. Sam's right there. He's not dreaming. His brother's safe in the bed next to him…

"Hello, Dean."

Dean's heart jolts. His head suddenly whips round at the sound of the soft voice, shooting a glare at the angel sat on the side of the bed. "Cas! What the hell?" He'd have shouted were it not for Sam. Instead, it's just an intense whisper.

Blue eyes look back at him calmly, both concerned and curious. "Sam said you were having trouble sleeping."

Dean scowls. "I was sleeping just fine 'til you woke me up."

"No, you weren't." The angel gives him a look, and Dean suddenly feels sheepish for even trying to hide the truth. "Your body temperature is elevated and your heart is beating much too fast. You were not resting."

That really wasn't a helpful thing to say. Dean shifts awkwardly in the bed as he pleads with his heart to slow. He thinks he'd be happy if he never felt it beat again. "Really, man? You get your freak on by watching me sleep or something? Can you just…not?"

There's no change in the angel's expression, but Dean thinks he hears him let out a soft sigh. "Dean, I know you don't wish to talk about what happened, but if it's preventing you from getting adequate rest, I can help." He reaches out a hand towards the hunter, two fingers extended, and Dean eyes it hesitantly.

"Thanks, man, but I'm good."

Cas doesn't pull away. "It won't hurt, Dean. Just one touch, and you'll sleep peacefully for four hours. No dreams. I promise."

The hand hovers inches from his forehead, awaiting permission, and Dean breathes deep as he considers. Several seconds pass in which he feels every beat of his heart, and wishes he couldn't. He lets out a breath and lowers himself back down onto the pillows again. "Cas?"

"Yes?" The angel's voice is gentle.

"You've been inside my dreams before, right?"

"Yes."

"So were you watching them, just now?"

A pause, then, "Yes."

Dean swallows, another beat passing in silence. So there's no point trying to hide it. "So can you…" He steels himself to ask. "Can you slow my heart down?"

"I can." Cas' tone is calm and measured, and Dean's grateful the angel isn't looking at him like he's some fragile thing about to shatter.

"Then do it."

"As you wish." The hand held out to him changes direction and lowers gently onto his chest. Cas splays his fingers to rest his palm directly over Dean's heart, and Dean feels a warmth begin to spread through him from the touch. It's almost like a dream itself as the heavy thumping inside him grows slower, lighter…until Dean finds he's able to breathe easy again. His eyelids grow heavy, slipping shut until he feels the comforting warmth of Cas' touch lift away.

It isn't panic, but a brief moment of anxiousness as Dean cracks his eyes open again, only to see Cas raising a tender hand to rest against his forehead. "Sleep, Dean. I'll watch over you."

For once, Dean has no protests as a comforting darkness sweeps over him, and peacefully, he sleeps.


	5. Hospital

Hospital corridors rush past in a blur. White ceiling, white walls, white coats. Gloved hands – too many – crowd a body.

 _Male. Early thirties. Head trauma._

A heart monitor beeps. Not Dean's. It doesn't matter.

 _It's my fault._

Sam should never have taken that blow to the head. Not if Dean had been paying attention, got his shit together instead of being distracted by his _own fucking heartbeat._

He should have shaken this by now. It's been weeks. Months. But still there's that voice lingering somewhere in the back of his skull, getting louder every time he feels it throbbing with his pulse.

 _Poor Sammy's not looking too hot here, Dean._

Concussions take months to heal. Sam couldn't afford another one.

Dean paces the hallway and waits.

* * *

 _Minor concussion. He's stable._

Sam's going to be okay. The doctors wouldn't have cleared him to go home if he wasn't. It doesn't stop the worry coursing through Dean's veins, or calm the pounding of his heart. Why won't it just _still?_ Let him go on in blissful ignorance of the beating like he used to before, what feels like an age ago. Before somehow it had become so tangled up in the need to keep Sam alive.

Dean's thumb traces round the rim of a stolen bottle. Every beat is an omen: too heavy, too fast. He doesn't want to feel it.

He swallows down a pill that isn't his, and he breathes.

* * *

 _Sam's going to be okay._

Get him home. Let him rest. It's what Dean tells himself to feel in control again, when he knows his heartbeat isn't a danger to Sam yet somehow it still feels that it is. He's left wondering how she still has this power over him.

His heart rate's creeping up again. She's given him a way to slow it down.

Another pill spills into his hand. How many is that now? He hasn't been counting: not in the way he's counting his pulse every time he feels it thump in his throat and at his temples, numbers tangled up in how much blood is in the human body and how fast can it bleed.

One at the hospital when he'd first swiped this bottle. One to calm his nerves before driving them home. A few hours ago, maybe. Yeah, he hasn't been counting.

Dean raises two – he thinks it's two – to his lips and swallows again.

He can't hear his pulse so loudly now, but the voice is still there. Even when the edges of his vision are turning black and the world's fading into his distance, there's still someone shouting.

 _"Dean!"_


	6. Don't Tell

When Dean wakes, it's to the feeling of warm sheets around him and his head swimming with nausea. He thinks he'd rather go back to sleep.

"Good to see you haven't iced yourself, then."

The voice off to his right doesn't let him.

He blinks, his head feeling thick as he tries to focus on the figure beside the bed. Sam's face swims in and out of focus, and there's a vague confusion as he wonders why Sam isn't the one in bed and Dean's watching over him.

Sam's eyes drop to where he's gripping an empty pill bottle in his hands. "What were you thinking, Dean?"

Everything crashes into focus, and Dean's stomach lurches. "I didn't mean to."

"Mean to what? Overdose?"

"I just needed to be in control. You were hurt. My heart was too fast…"

"And what was this supposed to achieve?"

Dean blinks, for a moment taken aback. Sam's angry.

"I know whatever happened in that park did a number on you, but you won't talk to me. What do you think would have happened if Cas hadn't found you, Dean? How is that supposed to help me?"

Ashamed, Dean says nothing.

There's a moment as Sam glares at him, expectant, and then his shoulders droop in defeat. "And you're still not talking."

Dean's throat feels thick. This isn't what he meant to happen, and he doesn't know how he's meant to say it, how to explain. How the fuck is he supposed to admit that a ghost they iced three months ago still has control over him so completely? _"I needed to slow my heart down so you could be okay,"_ is what he means. "I'm sorry," is all he manages, voice tight, tears threatening to spill.

Looks like he isn't the only one. "You know, you can talk to me, man," Sam says, eyes shining. "Tell me what happened. I'm here to help you, Dean. I just want you to be okay."

Dean turns his face away and cries.


	7. Normal

Normal.

It's not a word Dean would ever apply to him or his brother, even in the best of circumstances, but just maybe they're somewhere approaching it.

It hasn't been easy. Months have passed, coming on a year since the ordeal in the amusement park, and Dean thinks he's getting back to some approximation of "normal". There hasn't been another incident like the one with the pills. He hasn't broken down and frozen in the middle of a hunt. They've flushed the rest of the stolen beta blockers. Now Dean can almost relegate the memories to just one more bad hunt in a long list of shitty hunts. Nothing he can't handle.

He still gets the nightmares, sometimes. There are moments where his heart will flutter at the wrong time and he'll find himself gasping for breath on the verge on a panic attack, but it's not like nothing's ever done that before. What's one more trauma in his whole fucking repertoire?

They haven't talked about it. It's hard to bring himself to say much to either Sam or Cas, to relive it enough to ever really explain to them, but that just means a shortage of meaningful conversation between them. They don't talk.

And hey, for them, that's normal.


End file.
